


A Storm, Aflame

by silverr



Category: Original Work
Genre: Angst, Bigotry & Prejudice, Eventual Happy Ending, F/F, Fantasy, Hurt/Comfort, Ostracism, Strangers to Friends to Lovers, Worldbuilding, odd couple, selkie-elf hybrid
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-07
Updated: 2020-11-07
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:46:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27382912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silverr/pseuds/silverr
Summary: An unlikely friendship between an easy-going blacksmith and a surly witch has unexpected consequences for a small coastal town.
Relationships: Female Village Blacksmith/Female Village Witch
Comments: 6
Kudos: 17
Collections: Fic In A Box





	A Storm, Aflame

**Author's Note:**

> I liked some of the lines the nominal recipient provided as prompts for their other requests and worked them in as dialogue.

###  **Lunoria**

In Brigit Emberwind's opinion, Lunoria was the most enchanted place in the world, and she pitied anyone not lucky enough to live there. Situated on a headland that poked into the sea like an inquisitive finger, the village basked in mild days nearly year-round. The fields yielded an almost embarrassing bounty of crops, while the tides ensured that the fisher's nets were regularly filled. Most importantly to Brigit, who was the village blacksmith, the inland forests provided abundant firewood, while the seaside cliffs dropped chunky lumps of copper and tin and iron ore onto the beaches the way the orchards dropped ripe fruit, and in such abundance that no one ever needed to dig into the earth to mine.

The eastern sky was just pinking with dawn when Brigit, still yawning and rubbing a hand through her short blonde hair, left her small one-room cottage, fed her chickens, milked her goats, checked the progress of the charcoal curing in the earth kiln, took two eggs for her breakfast, then shuffled across the yard to the back door of her shop. 

The back room housed a large forge for smelting ore, and was where she kept her tools and supplies. After taking a small iron pan down from a shelf, she carried it into the front room and set it over the banked coals of the small forge. She cracked them into the pan, then folded back the shutters that opened up the front room of the shop to the street. 

In a few hours passers-by would be able to see her working at the small forge and anvil, but for now the streets were empty. The only evidence of activity was the smell of baking bread from down the street, and the welcoming yellow light glowing in the windows of the inn down the road, where no doubt vegetables were even now waiting to be chopped for slow-simmering soups and stews.

Keeping an eye on her eggs, Brigit sipped her cup of milk and ran a cloth over the wares displayed on the side walls of the front room. These were her show pieces: elaborately engraved armor, ceremonial swords, silver pledge cups, enameled bracelets. Proof of her skill, they occasionally sold to those who wanted everyone to know they had enough money to buy something so impractical, but Brigit much preferred making everyday objects. Nails, hinges, hooks and chains, paring knives and plowshares. She was more excited when someone brought her a door hinge to repair as she was when a wealthy customer commissioned something of gold and silver.

Dusting done, she set the pan of eggs aside to cool, then went across the street to the baker.

She had barely raised her hand to knock when the half-door opened and Madame Torttu was there with a freshly baked halfmoon roll.

"Pick of the pan for my favorite customer!" she said, waving away the money Brigit held out. "Put that away! On what you saved me by repairing the handle of that saucepan, you can have free bread for a month. Two!"

"Well thank you," Brigit said. She broke open the crusty roll and inhaled its fragrance with delight. "Oh, this is exquisite! As always!"

"Oh go on you," Torttu said, waving her floury hands. "It's a joy to bake for someone so appreciative!"

"So how was your trip to Kaddiswall?" Brigit asked, pulling out pieces of the roll's soft, buttery center. "Were you able to see your grandchildren?"

"Oh, well, you know how — "

She stopped suddenly and they both looked down the street.

A hooded figure, hunched as if with age, was pulling a wooden wagon toward them. The wagon's wheels creaked and protested, suggesting that there was something heavy under the ratty blanket. The stranger stopped a ten or so paces away, head bowed so low their face could not be seen, and said in a hoarse, harsh whisper, "I'm looking for Brigit Emberwind, the blacksmith." It was a woman's voice. 

As Brigit asked, "Do you need something repaired?" Madame Torttu spat at the stranger, then retreated into the bakery, shutting the half-door with a reprimanding bang.

Brigit, stunned at such hostile behavior, waved the stranger toward her shop. "Follow me. I'm the blacksmith."

The stranger nodded without raising her head. 

Brigit stepped into the shop, tossing the pieces of herb bread on the pan of eggs. "So what have you got?"

"I've interrupted your meal," the woman said. She stood taller now, and although she still hadn't lifted her head, she now sounded younger and not quite so hoarse. 

"Not really," Brigit said. "It's better to let eggs cool down and firm up a bit."

The woman made a soft, disbelieving noise. "Get cold, you mean." She had also dropped the meek tone she'd used in the street.

Brigit wasn't sure if she was flattered or annoyed by the changes, but either way she was intrigued. She reached for a lantern. "Mind if I get us some light?"

"It's your shop." 

Okay, now annoyance was in the lead. "Or we could take it into the yard?"

"The wagon won't fit through that doorway," the woman said. She reached down — Brigit noticed she was wearing heavy, elbow-length leather gloves — gathered up a clattering handful of something from the wagon, and placed it on the table. 

Hinges and pothooks and nails, all of them so twisted and bent they were unusable, and three pieces of pinky-finger chain with broken links. 

The stranger then pulled the ratty blanket aside, revealing a large iron cookpot, and with a grunt started trying to pick it up.

Brigit, suspecting that the shorter woman wouldn't be able to lift the pot onto the high worktable, reached over and hefted it easily, placing it in the center of the spill of light from the lantern.

The pot's handle had been twisted away from its attachment on one side, and there were a dozen or more fresh, deep scratches in the metal, but that's not what caught Brigit's attention: it was the _smell,_ as foul as an outhouse in high summer. "Were you using this as a _chamber pot?"_

"No, some of my guests did." She spat the words out like a curse, then added in a slightly more polite voice, "I didn't have time to clean it."

"Let's take it out back and give it a good rinse," Brigit said. "Fertilize my posies while we're getting rid of the stench." She gathered up the small items in one hand and lifted the pot with the other. "Come on then."

"I can't leave my wagon unattended." 

"Close my shutters, then," Brigit said.

"Are you sure you want to be seen doing business with me?" the stranger asked.

"Of course," Brigit said. "Why wouldn't I?"

In response, the woman raised her head and pushed back her hood.

Her face was an unexpected combination of the beautiful and the strange. Eyes a deep, heart-melting brown, but so large and round they were almost frightening. High cheekbones tapered to a pointed chin, framing a wide, full-lipped mouth currently downturned in a frown. A subtly jutting jaw. Add to that her small, broad nose, and the stippled banding of her coarse, black-brown hair — 

She was a Hidden One. A supernatural being. A wielder of magic.

"Get in a good stare, and don't forget the ears," the woman said, turning her head to show small oddly-smooth cups with pointed tips. "Mother was seal-folk. Father was half-elf. That makes me everything and nothing. A midden-pile." She pulled her hood back up.

Brigit winced in apology. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to be rude."

"No, of course you didn't." Her voice was weary and bitter. "But in my experience Lunorians only put on their mask of civility when they want something, when they are desperate for magic or healing, and are content to despise me the rest of the time."

And now Brigit understood. This Hidden One was Lily, the witch that lived at the far edge of the forest. Brigit had never needed her services, as burns were something a blacksmith's children learned to take care of early, and she knew enough about herbal medicine to take care of minor ailments herself, but Lily's healing powers were well-known: she mended bones, aided pregnancies (both wanted and not), and made comfort potions for easing pain. But Brigit also knew that not everyone in Lunoria was comfortable having Lily as a neighbor. Parents still invoked the Hidden Ones when they wanted to threaten unruly children, and Hidden Ones were always blamed whenever someone ran into unexpected difficulties or misfortune, whether it was a weevil infestation or a bad calving or a week of empty nets or a broken leg. 

Brigit didn't believe in nonsense such as hexes, though she wasn't sure if she should say so to Lily. 

She glanced out at the street, toward the bakery. Shadows moved across the cracks of light from the closed doors, and so she put down the soiled cookpot and the handful of hinges and nails, wiped her hands on a rag, pulled the empty wagon against the table, then closed and re-latched the shutters across the front of her shop. "That should do." She nodded at Lily's gloves. "Can't touch iron?" 

"Makes me itchy," Lily said in a deadpan voice.

"Bring along the little bits," Brigit said. "We'll leave them by the forge in the back room."

Outside in the yard, the chickens retreated and lined up near the coop, their soft clucks like cooing doves, while the goats scampered over to Lily like puppies.

Brigit set down the cookpot — or was it a cauldron? — in the middle of the flowerbed that bordered her cottage, grabbed a wooden bucket, then began to work the handle of the pump.

Lily, after petting the adoring goats, crossed the yard to stand by the flowers. "Speedwell, elderflower, gorse, heather, coreopsis, wisteria and tulips," she said. "Those send interesting messages." She turned and looked over her shoulder at Brigit. "Violets?"

Brigit wasn't sure if Lily's people had given the same meanings to flowers as humans had, so she said only, "I like them."

The pump was old and creaky-noisy, so it took a while before Brigit noticed that it was raining.

Correction: it was raining, but only on the cookpot. A tiny thundercloud, the width of Lily's outstretched arms, was showering down like a fluffy gray sprinkling can.

Brigit stopped working the pump and came to stand next to Lily. "Water magic?" Brigit asked carefully. Lily had said her mother was one of the sea-folk.

"Yes. Hurry and turn it over if you want to rinse the outside: there's not much moisture left."

"Sure." Brigid broke off a few long sprigs of gorse and heather, scrubbed around the inside of the pot, then leaned in and tipped the water out. She watched the cloudlet drop the last of its sprinkles, then tossed the heather and gorse onto her compost pile.

"How long will it take to repair everything?" Lily asked.

"A few days," Brigit said. "If the iron's too brittle to rework I'll have to make new parts. Might have to go oreing down on the beach; that'll take a day."

"Oh you don't have to — " Lily stopped herself. "We haven't yet discussed payment."

Brigit shrugged. "Eh, none needed. Business has been slow, and I'm bored. I'm grateful for something to do. I like fixing things."

Lily gave her a shrewd, mildly hostile look, as if she thougth Brigit might be trying to trick her. "I see. Alright, I'll be back in — a week? Early morning, after the Shadow Moon sets. Is that enough time?"

Not surprising she'd want to come back when the village streets were empty. "More than enough time."

"I'll leave the wagon here, then. If you don't mind," Lily said. "I won't need it." She paused and added, "It's heavy and noisy to drag all this way."

Brigit laughed. "Yes, you can leave it."

They walked back to the front of the shop, and Brigit unlatched one of the shutters. "Street's clear," she said quietly.

"Thank you." Lily pulled her hood close around her face, and then, quickly pulling off one of her gloves, waved at the pan of eggs, said, _"Go back!"_ then slipped out the door.

Brigit turned. The congealed and overcooked eggs had reverted to warm, just-cooked softness.

She hurried back to thank Lily, but the street was empty.

After she ate and washed up, Brigit gave the cookpot a second scrubbing, then brought it inside to dry next to the heat of the forge in the back room.

She then opened up the front of the shop and spent the next few hours repairing the small items, straightening the hinges and hooks and brackets and re-closing the links on the broken chain. (The nails were a lost cause; she'd have to melt them down and make new ones.) As she worked she noted that the pieces had an odd assortment of damage: several had impact damage as if from a hammer. The hinges had carbon residue, and the links of the broken chain had clearly been pried open. Generally pieces in such poor shape could be bought from a junk tinker, but these had no signs of rust, which suggested they'd been salvaged very recently.

Odd, but not impossible.

By the time she was done with the hinges Brigit had decided that, in addition to reattaching the handle of the cookpot, she was going to clad it with red brass so that Lily could handle it without gloves. True, Lily hadn't asked her to do that, but she had zinc and tin and copper to spare, so why not? And yes, part of it was that she felt ashamed of how rude Madame Torttu had been. She didn't want Lily to think that everyone in Lunoria was that way. 

After some quick calculations she decided she didn't have quite enough copper, but it was already too late in the day to go down and harvest more, so she tidied the shop, did laundry and mending, fixed a loose roof tile on the chicken coop, milked the goats, and went down the street to the inn for a leisurely dinner.

The topic of conversation and argument that evening was, as it had been since last Bright Moon, Gros Bilbeck and his son Surron. After their nets had come up empty yet again — an occurrence a few fools were attributing to witchcraft, even though everyone knew there was no one stingier with their bait that the Bilbecks — father and son had gone far outside Lunoria's known safe fishing grounds and had been caught in a vicious Bright Moon storm. Their boat had been driven toward a rocky beach head, and for some reason, the younger Bilbeck had jumped overboard at precisely the wrong moment, for as the next wave smashed the fishing boat against the rocks, it smashed Surron's arm and both his legs with it.

This too was witchcraft, several claimed, with a few others demanding that "something be done about it." 

"Emberwind met the witch today," Madame Torttu said slyly, and the room grew silent. 

"Whatcha think of 'er?" Toothless Aric asked, leaning forward eagerly. "Couldja smell tha' evil on 'er?"

Brigit poked at her stew for a few seconds before answering. "She smelled far better than you, Aric."

This brought on gusts of laughter. When it died down Brigit said, "Isn't she a healer? She didn't seem to me like someone who'd hurt someone just to drum up business."

"What she ask you to do?" someone else piped up. "Cast pentangles in some unholy metal made with virgin's blood?"

"No, she brought in some broken hinges for me to repair," Brigit said, "and a pot with a broken handle."

"Oh, that pot," someone muttered from one of the darker corners of the room. "She ain't gonna make soup in _that_ for a while." A ripple of ugly chuckles moved across the room. 

Brigit didn't see who it was, nor did she recognize the voice, and even if she had she couldn't think of a cutting enough retort, so she finished her ale, handed a few extra coins to Lucella, and then went home.

.

The next morning, Brigit hung a sign on her shutters saying she'd be gone most of the day, then slipped out the side gate. Early morning, just before and just after sunrise, were Brigit's favorite times of day. The village was quiet; the breezes were fresh. As she came in sight of the headland, the sweep of the rosy sky, tinting the sea along the horizon, always took her breath away with its vastness. 

The path down to the beach, such as it was, was treacherous in places, as the rough steps and footholds chopped into the cliffside were constantly eroding; what looked like a step might be just a deceptively flat heap of pebbles. There were thick ropes attached to heavy posts along the edge of the cliff, but even those needed to be checked for stability before descending.

Brigit always took a small pickax when she went down to the beach, so that she could fix up any bad steps along the way as she descended. 

Today, there were quite a few that needed fixing, and so it was nearly noon before she reached the beach. Stretching and rubbing her aching arms, she began to hike northwest along the base of the cliff, searching through the scree for ore nodules, and periodically scanning the cliff face for the green streaks that marked porphyry copper deposits.

By early afternoon she'd run out of beach, but her sack was less than a quarter full. After a quick dip in the surf, she backtracked to where she'd begun then continued along the curve of the shore, north-northeast along the eastern side of the headland. To her right, midway to the horizon, the Lost Isle glowed in the rich late afternoon light. Uninhabited, forbidding, it was the tip of an underwater mountain, honeycombed with a labyrinth of caves both above and below the waterline. From time to time Brigit had thought about swimming out to explore it for rare minerals, but the risk of being trapped when the tides came in — or worse, during a storm, which were vicious and came without warning — was enough to keep her away.

The sun was getting low when she finally spotted a huge vein of copper that started just above the scree and meandered like green and brown lightning a third of the way up the cliff. For a moment she weighed her options: dig until nightfall and sleep on the beach — she had no intention of climbing in the dark, even if the moon had been Bright — or take just enough to do the cladding for Lily's cookpot and come back another day? 

"Just enough it is," she said.

Despite this, the sun was nearly touching the horizon before she started back up the cliff, and the last third of the climb was in near darkness. 

She thanked herself for tidying up the route on the way down.

There weren't many on the streets; most were in for dinner, and at two days past Half Moon, there wasn't enough moonlight to encourage strollers.

The chickens and the goats were both grumpy, but they grumbled at her anyhow as she opened the side gate and crossed the yard.

She let herself into the back room, turned up a small light, and then stopped.

Something… wasn't quite right.

She went into the front room. 

There was a folded piece of paper on the floor near the shutters, just far enough in that she could almost see how someone had given the paper a quick, decisive shove to skitter it in.

Brigit picked the paper up and unfolded it. The faint light from the back room picked out the words.

 _Be careful_.

That's when she noticed that the shutters at the front of the shop, the shutters that opened on to the street, didn't seem to be fully latched.

A moment of creeping dread was followed by anger. Had someone invaded her space? Trying to — what, exactly? 

After securing the shutters, she moved soundlessly to the display wall and took down a shield; unlike the weapons, this piece would serve its purpose as well as a plain one. She had plenty of axes and hammers and picks and fire-tempered rods in the back room, any of which could serve as a weapon.

The thing was, if there was someone waiting in the shop to ambush her, there weren't many places they could hide. Lily's wagon hadn't been touched, and anyhow it was too small; the tattered blanket, now neatly folded, took up half the space. 

She bent down and looked under the table. No one.

As silently as she was able, she returned to the back room, but unless a would-be attacker was very small, or invisible, there were even less places to hide here.

She set down her lantern with a half laugh. "Brig, you silly turnip. They'd've jumped you when you first came in!"

Still, she blew the lantern out, then kept a grip on the shield as she eased out the back door and into the yard.

Her goats and chickens, being reasonable creatures, were out of sight and probably sleeping.

Feeling silly, she tiptoed across the yard, then threw open the door to her one-room cottage.

Nothing. 

It was late, and she supposed that she should join the chickens and the goats and do the reasonable thing and sleep, but she was not at all tired, and so she fired up the big forge and got down to work.

.

.

###  **The House in the Forest**

Repairing Lily's cookpot took two days and several tries, but the end product was worth it. After wrapping the newly re-attached handle in a spiral of red brass whose edges she incised to look like stitched leather, Brigit had decided the handle was still too plain, and engraved a pattern of dots and wavers from one end to the other. Then she polished out the scratches and rubbed the inside and out with seasoned oil until the pot — or was it a cauldron? — shone like onyx. 

And then she was too excited to have to wait three days until Lily returned, so she greased the squeaky wheels of the wagon, wrapped the cookpot and the repaired small items in the blanket, and set off for the Northern Forest.

She'd never been to Lily's house before, but she had picked up the general directions over the years: take the Great Forest Road north to the forest edge, then leave the road and travel east to a creek or small river.

As she pulled the wagon through the heavy grasses at the forest's edge — wasn't there even a path? — she wondered why Lily had chosen a location so distant and difficult to get to. How many people with serious wounds had died on the way here? Wouldn't it be better if Lily lived in town? If she did that, if she was easier to get to, perhaps people would accept her?

Brigit was beginning to regret her impulsive gesture in returning the cookpot early when she spotted a meandering break in the vegetation that, happily, was due to the beaten earth of a trail. A narrow one, to be sure, but even a narrow path was better than none.

It wasn't long before she saw the stones of a chimney poking up from the grasses and thorn bushes, but as she got closer she frowned. This couldn't be it.

The chimney was tumbled down, in the midst of the remains of a cottage. Only the wall with the chimney was intact; the other three were partially or completely destroyed. A neat stack of charred timbers and medium-sized stones was close by, as though someone had started salvaging in order to rebuild. A pile of rubble — mostly cloth and broken furniture — was on the far side of the remains of the cottage.

Brigit, standing there gripping the handle of the wagon, could not believe that this was Lily's house, because if it was…

Because if it was, Lily was either dead or fled. Both possibilities filled her with dismay.

Leaving the wagon, she picked her way through the debris to the fireplace. The area in front of the hearth was clear, and there were fresh ashes.

"You might as well come out," Brigit said loudly, feeling foolish. "I know you're there."

She heard a rustle of leaves, and turned to see Lily drop down from the one of the larger trees at the forest's edge.

Without the dark mass of the hooded cloak weighing her down, Lily looked slightly taller, although the top of her head would barely come up to Brigit's chin, and she was definitely not as childlike as she had appeared in the shop. A laced sleeveless vest and leggings made of what looked like birchbark fit snugly around nicely-curved hips and breasts. 

Brigit swallowed: there was a strange little flutter in her belly.

Lily either did notice or didn't care. "Why did you come here?" she demanded.

"I finished your repairs, and thought I'd surprise you by bringing your wagon back early." She waited for Lily to respond; when she didn't, she added, "Is this your home? Who did this?" With a sickening jolt, the damaged pot and hinges suddenly made sense. 

"It's my father's house," Lily said. "I didn't see them. By the time I woke up, they had already gone."

Brigit wondered how anyone could have slept through the destruction of their house and belongings.

As if she could read Brigit's thoughts Lily said angrily, "I spend my nights up in the trees. I feel safer in the open."

"Do you intend to rebuild?" 

"Of course."

"Do you need tools? I always carry my pickax, but I could go back for more."

Lily lifted her hand. Three large rocks and two roof beam timbers rose into the air.

Brigit had never seen actual magic before: she got goosebumps. "If you can do things like that," she asked, "why did you bother to bring the pot and the other things to me for repair? Why didn't you just fix them yourself?"

"Repairing metal requires fire magic," Lily said, stepping carefully through the stinging grass and around the thorn bushes toward the wagon, "which I don't have. But I can rebuilding a house, because that's mostly earth and forest magic."

"Aren't you a water — oh. You inherited earth and forest magic from your father?"

Lily looked surprised that Brigit had remembered, then bent over the wagon and pulled the blanket aside. 

"I put brass cladding on the handle," Brigit said quickly, "and special white crystalline strands between the iron and the brass so you could handle the pot without gloves. At least when it's not hot. You probably want to wear gloves when it's hot."

Lily looked up at her. "Why?" she asked.

"So that you don't burn your hands."

Lily's eyes narrowed, but she seemed more puzzled than angry. "No, that's not what I meant."

"Why did I do the extra work?" Brigit said. "Because I like to fix things. And because I don't want you to think everyone in Lunoria is horrible."

Lily continued to look up at her, as if she didn't know what to make of Brigit's words. Finally she said, "Alright." 

Brigit felt a leap of joy. "Alright?" 

"It's what I said." Lily looked down at the cookpot, but not fast enough to hide a faint smile. She pulled her glove off and hesitantly touched the brass handle with one finger; after a moment, she curled her hand around it. She looked up at Brigit, and this time her smile wasn't disguised. "It works!" She started to lift the pot, grunted, then said, "What, you couldn't have made it weigh less?"

Brigit laughed. "My fire magic isn't _that_ strong!"

After that, and without any fanfare or discussion, Brigit began sorting the rubble of the chimney looking for usable pieces, and to use her pickax to do the initial rough shaping on the tree trunks that Lily floated out of the forest, splitting out rough planks and timbers for new walls and roof. 

And then suddenly it was late afternoon.

"I guess I should be going," Brigit said. She was holding a leaf cup — a miracle in itself, six overlapping curved leaves that didn't leak, was magic holding it together? — and sipping the sweetest spring water she'd ever tasted. Probably to be expected from a water witch. 

Lily was laying out a bark platter of berries, apples, mushrooms, and nuts, at least two of which were entirely out of season. She looked up at Brigit and asked, "What's wrong?" 

"I should go," Brigit said. "I'll bring better tools tomorrow." She waited a moment to see if Lily would tell her not to come back the next day, but that didn't happen. Which was a relief. "The only reason I can think of to stay would be to protect the house if the attackers come back, and I doubt you need my help with that." Of course, there was at least one other reason to stay, but Brigit wasn't going to bring it up. Yes, Lily had clearly warmed to her a little, but as far as Brigit could tell she hadn't warmed _that_ much.

"If you stay, you'll have to sleep in a tree or on the ground," Lily pointed out.

This made Brigit happy she'd kept her mouth shut. Wistfully, she let go of her vague fantasy of sweet caresses on a bed of moss and soft pine needles.

"If you're going to go, you'd better leave right now," Lily said crisply, breaking into Brigit's reverie a second time. "If you don't, it'll be dark before you're out of the forest." 

"Alright," Brigit said. She slipped an apple into her pocket and took a last mushroom to nibble on. "See you tomorrow then." At least there was that.

It was hard to read Lily's expression, but Brigit almost thought that she looked disappointed. 

.

Brigit woke the next morning an hour before dawn. After setting her eggs on the forge in the back room — the coals had just enough heat — she went across the street and knocked on the bakery door.

Although the light was on, it took a while for Madame Torttu to answer.

"Oh, hello Brigit," she said. "Sorry, no rolls today. Something went wrong with the oven. Everything is burned." She started to close the door. "Come back later. Or tomorrow. Yes, tomorrow is better."

"Oh, that's awful!" Brigit said quickly. "Anything I can do to help?"

Madame Torttu stared at her a moment, then said, "No," and shut the door, and that was the end of that.

Brigit, feeling slightly rebuffed, went back into her shop. She hung up her _Out for the Day_ sign, closed and locked the shutters, lit a lantern, and then went into the back workshop to pack. 

First she selected her most useful carpenter's tools: saws and drills, chisels, measuring sticks, her grandmother's adze, her mother's favorite square. After wrapping each tool in oiled paper, she stacked them on an old heat mat, rolled it up, tied the roll with heavy twine. Next, she gathered up all the spare nails or hardware in her workshop and put them in an old flour sack, which she tied off and set next to the bundle of tools.

There was a knot of excitement and dread in her chest as she took down her old traveling sack and slid the tool bundle into it. _I'm coming back_ , she told herself. _I'm just taking all this because I don't know what we might need._

She added a coil of rope, and then, after a moment of hesitation, took her least worn pair of iron-working gloves and stuffed the fingers with gold nuggets and the few semi-precious stones she'd found over the years. 

Just in case.

After quickly gobbling her breakfast and wiping out the pan, she went up front and. After making doubly certain the street shutters were firmly latched, she took down the shield and the two ornamental daggers she was proudest of from the display wall and carried them into the back room. She put leather sheaths on the daggers, slid the daggers hilt-first into the iron-working gloves, then wrapped the gloves in her favorite blacksmithing apron. This too went into the travelling sack. 

After this she stood for a moment, watching as her vision blurred and added hazy spikes to the gleaming points of light on the shield.

Then she inhaled sharply, wiped her face, and wrapped her egg-pan in the old bit of tablecloth she used for dusting. "Plenty of room left," she said as she tucked it into the bag. 

Checking one last time that the embers in both forges were either cold or dying, she slung the pack over one shoulder and the shield over the others, blew out the lantern, and left the shop, loving the back door behind her.

"Don't worry," she assured the chickens and goats as she crossed the yard to her cottage. "If I don't come back someone will be along to take care of you." She let the goats out of their pen to forage in the yard, and scattered a small pail's worth of corn for the chickens.

She stood for a moment with her hand on the cottage's door-handle, admiring her garden, and then went in. She stripped the bed of its blankets and quilts, then rolled them up one at a time and stuffed them into the travelling sack until it was full. 

Finally, she carefully down the small wooden box that contained mementos of her foremothers, touched each object to make sure nothing was missing, then nestled the box between the rolls of bedding. After that she slid the shield in over everything, tied everything tight, and then set out for Lily's house before the sky had even started to lighten with dawn.

.

"So how did they meet?"

It was noon; they were taking a break under the trees. The tools Brigit had brought were making the walls almost fly up, even without Lily's magic.

"Sea-folk are generally solitary," Lily said, staring off into the distance. "Each claims a beach or rock ledge or cave as their own, but they do stay relatively close to others of their kind so that they can more easily come together for mating. My mother… maybe it was an accident, maybe she made the wrong person jealous, but somehow she was caught in a terrible storm and taken far from the rest of her clan. She swam for days, and finally took refuge on the Lost Isle."

"Our Lost Isle? The one near the headland?"

"Yes." Lily paused to shred the end of a willow branch she had been adding to a basket. "She spent many years alone on the island avoiding land-dwellers, never taking human form unless it was absolutely necessary."

"Why?

"Seal-folk have magical fur,": Lily said, "which they shed to take human form. If their sealskin is ever stolen or kept from them, they are trapped in human form and cannot change back, and are cut off from the sea forever."

Brigit, wondering if Lily's father being half-elf meant that Lily was a quarter human herself, asked, "Is human form really so bad?"

Lily rolled her eyes. "Only someone who hasn't experienced the joy of the sea would ask that."

"Oh, so you can become a seal?"

"No," Lily said, and looked away. "I don't have enough sea-blood in me to transform."

Brigit hoped to hear the rest of the story, but she stayed quiet and was patient. Stories, like annealing, could not be hurried.

"According to my mother," Lily said at last, "although my father was one of the guardians of the Northern forest, he loved the sea as well, and often went swimming near the shore. One day he was caught in a sudden undertow during the high tides of Bright Moon, pulled under and tossed by the waves. When he finally washed up on the rocks of the Isle, his body was broken in many places. My mother, aware that he was not like other land dwellers, took human form to tend to him. One thing led to another." She stared at the basket, her dark eyes solemn as always. "She sent him away before I was born."

"Why?"

"Sea-folk bear and raise their pups alone. My father understood and accepted this."

Brigit was gripped by sadness. How lonely Lily's parents must have been. Both the only one of their kind, feared and hated by humans. Was it surprising they had taken solace and comfort from each other, even if only briefly? "What happened to him?"

Lily shrugged. "Who knows? Maybe he came back here and lived alone until he died. Maybe he abandoned the forest and went off in search of his people. Or maybe he drowned during the swim back to Lunoria."

Only someone whose heart was aching could pretend to be so cold. "How do you know this was his house?"

"I just know," Lily said, tossing the unfinished basket aside. "It's impossible to explain to a human." 

"Alright." Brigit leaned back and stretched her arms out over her head. Her muscles ached from the unaccustomed carpentry work, but in a good way. Blacksmithing involved a lot of hammering, so it felt good to use the saw and the adze and the chisels, learn new rhythms for new motions.

Lily was eyeing her. 

"What?" Brigit asked. 

"You have large muscles for a human," Lily said. "Do they hurt very much from all this work?"

"Not really," Brigit said, rolling over on her side. "A little sore, that's all."

Had it been her imagination, or had Lily's eyes followed the movement as Brigit's breasts shifted and bulged under her shirt?

"We should get back to work," Lily said suddenly, brushing pine needles from her leggings as she got to her feet. "The rain is getting impatient."

.

They worked for the next few hours in near silence, only speaking when they needed to communicate something about the construction. 

They had finished the walls, and were beginning work on the rafters for the roof.

"I suppose you want to know what happened to my mother, too," Lily said suddenly.

Brigit stopped work on the mortise and tenon joint she'd been fitting and said carefully, "Only if you want to talk about it."

"Not really."

Brigit raised her eyebrows. "Alright."

Lily went off into the woods to scout up another fallen tree for the roof. "It's like this," she said as she brought back a beautifully straight fir sapling. "She's alive, but she's imprisoned on the Lost Isle. If I don't behave, she dies."

"Imprisoned?" Brigit said, immediately feeling ready to fight an army. "Who did that to her? Someone should rescue her!"

"It's not that simple," Lily said. "She went voluntarily."

"Why? Why would anyone do that?"

"The Lunoria elders told her that if she didn't cause any trouble, I'd be safe." She began knocking off the fallen fir tree's dead branches with a fist-sized rock. 

"What trouble could she cause in prison anyhow?" Brigid asked, disgusted.

Lily waited until Brigit looked at her, then said, "Plenty. She's the one who brings the storms."

"What do you mean, 'she's the one who brings the storms'?"

Lily frowned slightly. "I mean what I said. Water magic is most powerful during Bright Moon and Shadow Moon. At that time the sea can be incited to attack the land."

A chill passed over Brigit, and she shivered. Is this what had happened to Surron Bilbeck? Was Toothless Aric right? Had it been witchcraft after all? "Or fishing boats?"

Lily gave Brigit a wary look. "I don't know. I suppose so. When the sea is angry, it will destroy anything in its way." She frowned suddenly. "I have trusted you, Brigit Emberwind. I have told you things about my family, about my people, that no one else in Lunoria knows." 

It wasn't exactly a threat, but it wasn't exactly _not_ a threat either. Brigit suddenly recalled the piece of paper with the words _Be careful._ "Your secrets are safe with me," she said, and saw some of the wariness leave Lily's expression. "But I don't understand. The storms aren't always the same, and don't always come at Bright Moon or Shadow Moon."

"Well, not everything is water magic," Lily said. "The sea has its own mind."

They worked until it was almost too dark to see, but building the roof went more slowly than they had anticipated.

"I think that's all for tonight," Brigit said after the second time she'd almost dropped her hammer. "The clouds will have to be patient a little longer."

"Hush," Lily said, sharply. "Someone's coming."

Brigit looked along the river toward the road, and sure enough, torchlight flickered between the trees like fireflies.

"They might be — "

"No," Lily said. They're coming for me. For us."

"Too many to fight?"

"Too many to fight."

Brigit dropped down from the roof, gathered up her tools and stuffed them in her travelling bag. 

"We will hide in the treetops until they are done," Lily said.

It was harder than Brigit thought it would be, sitting there and watching fearful fools destroy the hard work of the past few days, but she was also grateful that she'd finally seen the ugliness lurking beneath the surface of her neighbors. 

As the mob had been denied their real target — Lily — they soothed their disappointment by beginning to drink. Someone suggested shitting in the cookpot again, but to Brigit's relief this idea was shouted down.

"We should do something," Brigit whispered. 

"What do you suggest?"

The idea came to her then, as certain and as beautiful as a shower of sparks. "Let's go to the Lost Isle and free your mother."

.

.

###  **The Lost Isle**

It was easier than Brigit thought it would be to creep away from the Lunorians gathered around the burning house and make their way back to the road, and when Lily summoned two great antlered creatures for them to ride, Brigit could see the advantages of having a witch as co-conspirator.

As they rode Lily explained the nature of the prison. "A cave has been fitted with iron bars, as thick as two fingers," she said. 

"Easy, We'll pick the lock."

"There is no lock."

"No lock? Then how do they feed her, or clean her cell?"

"They don't. She eats what the tide brings her."

The images this brought to mind were horrifying. "How long has she been there?"

"Almost fifteen years," Lily said. "They took her not long after I was old enough to begin casting healing spells."

It was a while before Brigit was able to speak. "No matter what it takes, we are getting her out of there," she said. "Usually I hate the darkness of Shadow Moon nights, but it should give us an advantage."

As if it was an appropriate response, Lily said, "I love the light for it shows me the way, yet I also love the darkness, for it shows me the stars."

Brigit raised her eyebrows at this. "You'll explain that to me later, okay? For now, let me off before we get to the village, and I'll get the tools we need. Can you meet me on the beach, at the bottom of the third rope?"

"Yes."

When they reached the outskirts of the village Lily made a sound that stopped their mounts. "Do you need what's in the big bag?"

"Not at the moment."

"Then leave it. It is noisy and will slow us down."

Brigid didn't mind losing the bedding, but she didn't want to part with her mementos. Or her tools. "There are things in there that I — "

"Never mind. Give it to me. I will carry it."

"Will we be swimming to the Isle?" Brigit asked as she handed it over. "If so, I'm going to grab some spare clothing for us to change into." 

Lily smiled, something that Brigit didn't think she had ever seen before. "Oh, leave that to me."

.

Brigit smelled it before she saw it, the stinging, choking stench of an unopposed fire, and as she turned down the lane she saw the reddish glow coming from the gap where the side gate had been broken away. 

The cottage was a smoking, crackling ruin. The goats and chickens were gone; Brigit hoped they had fled to friendlier yards. The cottage's furniture and few possessions had been dragged out into the yard and smashed, and the flowerbeds had been torn up and trampled. Brigit scooped up a battered clump of violets, their pale roots gasping for earth, and placed them in a cracked earthenware cup that had somehow escaped the destruction.

The attackers had not set fire to the shop, perhaps out of concern that it would spread to other businesses along the street, but they had broken down the back door.

Everything that _could be_ toppled, had been toppled. Workbench drawers had been pulled out, dumped on the floor, and then stamped to splinters. Tools were scattered everywhere — though the forge, staunch as it was, had resisted the vandalism. In the front room, the display walls had been stripped, and the portable forge pushed over. The ashes spread across the floor like a cloudy fan, and words, hateful words, had been painted on the inside of the shutters. 

Brigit ignored them. She set down the cup of violets, then found a lantern that still worked and combed through the chaos until she had gathered up every metal file she owned. Happily, the over-sized metal pincers that she had never ever used. She remembered her grandmother's words: _"You won't use them often, but when you need them, you will be_ very _happy you have them."_

Brigit was indeed very happy to have them.

It was the night of Shadow Moon, and so she was able to slip through the back alleys and down to the headland without being seen. She had had no other way to carry the tools other than tucking her shirt inside her pants, buckling a belt tightly around her waist, and then tucking the files inside her shirt. The pincers she carried: their weight and long handles were too much for the shirt, but perhaps would make a formidable weapon. She'd almost left the cup of violets behind, but her natural stubbornness drove her to find a rag, wrap the cup tightly, and slide it down into the space between her breasts.

Brigit found the third rope, partly because she spotted, on the stump anchoring it, a pale mushroom in a cup made of leaves.

She tucked the pincers into the back of her belt and began to descend, once again thanking herself for the work she'd done on the path. 

Had it been only a few days before? It felt like half a year.

As she dropped the last few feet to the scree-pile at the bottom of the cliff, she turned to see Lily, waiting. The Hidden One stood at the edge of the surf, holding a bark coracle.

"We're going to the Isle in a walnut shell?" Brigit asked.

"You've gained weight since I saw you," Lily said lightly, "and a third tit." She nodded at the items bulging and jutting from beneath Brigit's shirt. 

"You really know how to charm a girl," Brigit said, pulling the pincers out of her belt so that she could sit without poking a hole in anything. She was oddly relieved to see her travelling bag in the bottom of the tiny boat. "And for your information, my third tit is a cup of rescued violets."

"Violets? You are an impossible romantic," Lily said, and then she stepped into the coracle and raised her hands, and said, _"Waves! Take us to her!"_

Brigit had no idea, later, how long their trip had actually taken; all that she was sure of was that it had been terrifying. The tiny boat had been lifted up on the crest of a huge wave — which looked at any second as though it would dump them out and bury them under fathoms of water — and then just as suddenly deposited on a ledge outside a cave that was ankle-deep in a rapidly rising tide.

The cave was shallow. At the back, lit by eerily-glowing water, a rank of iron bars had been sunk deep into the very stone. Behind them, on a narrow stone shelf, a nearly skeletal woman crouched. Bald, clad only in rotting strands of kelp, her eyes were as large and sorrowful as Lily's.

"This is Brigit Emberwind," Lily said softly. "She's here to free you."

The old woman nodded, then said something in a croaking voice.

"No, I don't know where they hid it," Lily replied. "If you can't find it after we free you, we'll help look, alright?"

Brigit took in this discussion as she studied the bars. If the lower ends had been immersed in salt water almost constantly for nearly fifteen years, surely there had to have been at least _some_ rusting. "How high does the water come?" she asked, noticing that the water they stood in was now mid-shin.

After an exchange with her mother, Lily said, "Here," and indicated a spot only a few inches below the stone ceiling.

"Alright," Brigit said, eyeing Lily's mother. "If we can remove the bottom half of three or four bars, I think she'll be able to squeeze out."

"How can we help?" Lily asked. 

Brigit reached down inside her shirt and brought out two files. "Here," she said, pointing just above the midpoint of a bar. "Rasp here, with the edge of the file. If you can make even a tiny notch, it'll be easier for me to cut though the bar."

And then Brigit opened the jaws of the pincers, and positioned them around the iron. Her muscles bulged with strain as she struggled to cut through the bar. Lily and her mother filed savagely, as all the while the water swirled higher and higher.

Brigit stopped to take a deep breath, adjusted her grip, and then, with every ounce of strength she had, brought the handles of the pincers together.

The pincer's jaws snapped through the metal with a satisfying click, but at the same moment a burning pain lanced up Bridget's arm to her shoulder. "Damn it!" she cried. She grabbed the bar below the cut with her good arm, and pulled and twisted until it came free. "One down, three to go," she said. 

Lily's mother made more croaking noises, and suddenly the cold, churning water in the cave became still. Outside, the waves continued to writhe, but in the cave, the water was now as calm as a bath.

Lily clapped her hands together and rubbed them rapidly. A faint green glow began to grow between her palms; when it was almost too bright to look at, she separated her hands and then stroked them along Brigit's arm.

The sensation was indescribable. The pain faded, and suddenly Brigit felt as though she now had a hundred arms, and the strength of ten women. She stooped and retrieved the pincers she had dropped, then used them to snap the next three bars as effortlessly as if they were green saplings instead of tempered iron. 

A moment later they were helping Lily's mother through the bars and to freedom. The old woman scrambled past them and out of the cave.

Lily and Brigit hurried after her, but she skittered sideways along ledges and climbed expanses of rock that appeared to have no hand or footholds so quickly that they lost sight of her. 

They stopped to catch their breath. A current of cool, damp air rolled over them, and the wind stilled completely. Lily lifted her head. "She's found it."

"Found what?"

"Her sealskin."

An instant later there was a rumble of thunder, and warm raindrops began to pelt them.

"Now what?"

"Wait out the storm," Lily said. "My mother has fifteen years of rage to unleash."

"Is there anything we can do to stop her?" Brigid asked, knowing the answer was no.

"Why should we?" Lily asked. "All the Lunorians have done is hate and mistreat us, while also taking advantage of us. Let her rage."

Brigit looked up at the sky, lowering with curdled masses of pewter clouds. The wind was picking up, and the rain intensified, with the droplets now almost stingingly cold. "We've got to find some shelter," she said.

Lily looked around. "There's a cave above the high-water mark, on the side opposite the mainland. It's probably where my mother has gone."

Brigit nodded and started to follow her, but between the day's work rebuilding the house and the night's stresses and exertions, she was exhausted, and stumbled a little.

And then Lily was there, holding her up, looking up at Brigit with her sleek, rain-slick hair and her otherworldly face and her wide, beautiful mouth…

Brigit jerked back, almost causing them to fall.

Lily made a sound that was very like a snarl. "What is wrong with you? Either come closer or stay away!" As Brigit stared down at her, not quite understanding, she added more gently, "Having you in between is very exhausting."

Brigit stroked Lily's hair, then bent down to kiss her. She'd meant it to be gentle, questioning, but the moment their lips touched Lily clutched her fiercely and stretched up, as if Brigit was a tree she needed to climb.

The kiss might have gone on and on, but a lashing spray of icy water made them gasp and pull apart.

"Why does it have to be so complicated?" Lily said. "I just want to be with you."

"I want to be with you too," Brigit said. "It is as simple and as complicated as that."

Lily reached up and touched Brigit's face. "Then let's finish this, and be together." She smiled and added wryly, "Also, we need to find a safe place for your violets, because kissing you with that third tit in the way is painful."

And then Lily took her hand, and they began to make their way to the far side of the island.

.

Brigit had been worried that it would be impossible to find Lily's mother in the stormy darkness. This fear was unfounded.

The old woman stood on a rocky ledge above them. Oblivious to their presence, her arms raised, her mouth open and howling, she was a vengeful goddess of skin and bone, wind and water. 

Lily and Brigit climbed cautiously onto the ledge, then slipped inside the narrow cave mouth behind her.

The air inside was slightly warmer, though even out of the wind the two shivered in their dripping wet clothing.

"T-take care of the v-violets," Lily said, peering around in the darkness. "There. Put them there." She was pointing at the back of the cave, thick with shadow.

Brigit groped around in the darkness until she bumped into a small, low, wooden table. Cautious exploration discovered what felt like a storm-lamp: amazingly, the flint still sparked, and a soft oil-fed glow came through the milk-glass sides. 

Just having a little light made her feel warmer. "The violets are now safe," Brigit said as she put the cup on the table. "For all their adventures, they don't seem to have taken much additional damage. Now if we only had the blankets from my bag!"

"If only we knew where the bag was," Lily said. She had taken off her shirt and was wringing it out.

Brigit, momentarily distracted by the sight of Lily's breasts, needed a moment to find her voice. "It was in the coracle."

"And I wonder where the coracle is now," Lily said as she stripped off her leggings.

Brigit, her face burning, was startled by a scraping sound outside the cave. 

Lily darted out of the cave, coming back a moment later rolling the coracle like a hoop. The dripping travelling bag was over her shoulder. She leaned the coracle against the wall next to the table, then dropped the bag.

"Get those blankets out and warm me up, Emberwind!"

At first they were only huddling for warmth, Lily lying on Brigit's chest, Brigit's arms holding her tight. Chilled breast to chilled breast, their naked legs entwined and their foreheads touching as they shared breath, their foremost thought was that they were grateful to be alive, to have escaped death.

"To your people," Lily asked, "what is the symbolism of violets?"

"Love between two woman," Brigit said softly.

"To mine as well," Lily said. She ran a hand through Brigit's spiky hair, and then they were kissing again — but this time their hands were free to roam, to touch everything they could reach. Thoughts of the fury outside fell away; Lily bit and sucked on Brigit's ear until she gasped, then moved down to her neck, giving it the same nuzzling attention. Brigit brought her hand up to gently cup and squeeze Lily's breast, carefully pinching the already hard nipple until Lily moaned and ground down against her; then Lily slid down to suck Brigit's breast, while one hand reached to caress what she could reach of the delta of curls.

"The bed is too narrow," Lily growled in frustration. "Sit on the table. I want to lick you."

"Now?" Brigit whispered. She was thunderingly aroused, but she had never expected to make love on a table in a cave in the eye of a magical storm, and certainly not with her lover's mother less than a dozen paces away.

"Now!" Lily said, sliding off Brigit and clutching the quilt around her like a cape. 

Shivering at the loss of Lily's heat. Brigit pulled another blanket from her bag — this one was cold and slightly clammy — and draped it over her shoulders, moved the cup of violets to a low stone shelf, then sat self-consciously on the edge of the table, her knees slightly apart.

Lily immediately dove in, pushing Brigit's knees as far apart as they would go and then touching her with hands and tongue and even her nose, stopping every time Brigit tensed and began to whimper and tremble. "I love your smell," Lily said huskily, "and your taste." She tantalized Brigit until the blacksmith bit her lip and began to shake with the effort of staying silent.

And then Lily pulled Brigit's hips forward and did something with her mouth and her fingers and perhaps even her magic, something rough and hungry that caused a warm tingle to pulse out in fiery waves, stronger and stronger, until caution was abandoned and Brigit threw her head back and howled, joyously and without shame.

.

.

###  **Epilogue**

The morning had dawned in a glorious blaze of pinks and oranges and yellows. 

Brigit and Lily, wrapped in quilts and blankets, sat on the ledge watching the now serene blue expanse below them. 

That morning, Lily had given her mother a necklace of shells that she'd found in the forest house. Before donning her sealskin and diving into the sea, Lily's mother had enchanted the necklace and given it back, with her blessing, to both of them. 

And now they sat. From their vantage point they could see, far across the water, that headland had crumbled into the sea, taking the village known as Lunoria with it.

"I have seen the sea when it is stormy and wild," Lily said, "when it is quiet and serene, when it is dark and moody, and in all its moods, I see myself."

"I see it too," Brigit said, and pulled her close.

.

.

The End

.

.

© 2020 rev. nov 15

**Author's Note:**

> The title, and a few lines, were inspired by this quote I came across:
>
>> "I—I am going to be a storm—a flame—  
>  I need to fight whole armies alone;  
>  I have ten hearts; I have a hundred arms;  
>  I feel too strong to war with mortals—  
>  BRING ME GIANTS!"
> 
> — Edmond Rostand, Cyrano de Bergerac


End file.
